


Valhalla in the Dry Sand

by ChopLogic



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Extended Universe, Fanfic takes place before the plot of the film, Gender Neutral Character, Major Characters from canon used as background/supporting characters, Major Original Character(s), Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:29:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChopLogic/pseuds/ChopLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(There is a threat on the horizon, just beyond Immortan Joe's reach and far stronger then he could ever defend against. A threat of technology more advanced then what Immortan's repair boys could conceive, and he is forced to rely on the sharp mind of a boy near death to protect his Citadel.</p><p>Wreck was a war boy with wild hot blood in his veins until an act of valour took his leg. Now Citadel-bound he spends his time as a repair boy preforming tune ups that surpass expectations. His time has come once again to do war, armed with his only his cunning and a chrome prosthetic, he will set out into the desert to meet his fate.</p><p>-=Mad Max: Fury Road Extended Universe=-<br/>-=All Original Major Characters=-</p><p>Please comment your thoughts, I live on feedback!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wreck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo opening preamble/backstory!
> 
> This entire idea/plot and these characters started forming about 5 minuets after I watched Mad Max: Fury Road, and after a few hours of scouring the Mad Max wiki and drawing character designs I decided to put my ideas into writing.
> 
> So welcome aboard my nonstop terrortrain of desertpunk aesthetic and non-binary genders, I hope you will stick around to see this ride to the end! Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments or in my inbox, I thrive on feedback!

His name wasn’t always Wreck, It was once something strong and powerful and loud like the motors that roared under rusted bonnets, like the scream of the warrior’s guitar as the war parties rode out, the wild cries of the war boys atop their vehicles as they bore down on the enemies of Immortan Joe. It was a name for a hero destined to ride a second life in Valhalla. His name was that until the accident

Blood and grit and guzzoline was all he could remember of that chill night, and the horrible pain as other war boys dragged him from the wreckage. Not dead enough for Valhalla with the taste of silver paint still layered on his tongue. He had caught them, intercepted the thieves that sought to steal water from Immortan Joe, a spear in one hand and the tips of his fingers just brushing the handles of the bike he rode before the glorious orange fireball engulfed him and the thieves. They had died and he intended to go with them, but the gods closed the gates in your face and left you twisted and ruined like the wrecked vehicles instead. A sick mockery of flesh, a coward.

He couldn’t war anymore, and what’s a war boy without his war? He was nothing but a weakling; not strong enough to seek a glorious end for himself, spat and trodden upon by his brethren. To think that that one act would pave his way in, that Immortan Joe would thank him for his sacrifice and declare him a hero of the Citadel was only a fever dream. A tantalizing thought that shook him awake in his hammock at night, moaning with the ache and agony of the coughing, hacking night fevers and red soaked bandages wrapped around what was left of his leg.

He was a fool, barred from a glorious end by his own wild desire, destined to expire in the Citadel, a cruel joke of a war boy now bound down by his disfigurement and set to live life as a repair boy, never to hear the thump of the taiko and squall of the guitar as he rode into the waste.

Wreck, that’s what they called him now; a wrecked car, a wrecked leg, a wrecked chance at a second life. His old name was swallowed by the jeers, his new name spat like a curse, a warning to others as foolish as he; _Wreck, Wreck, the boy who failed, gates closed in your face, Wreck, Wreck, never to ride again, a repair boy until the death gets you, Wreck, Wreck, **Wreck**_.

He still had his hands, one solitary blessing keeping the other boys at bay from culling him. Blessedly unscathed and nimble as ever they quickly adapted to repairs; fingers flying over faulty bike chain, plucking bright coated wires into place, grasping a welding torch to meld yet another protective spike to the bumper of a war truck. He was slower than some, then most, but the work he did was so thorough and polished others began to take notice.

The machines seemed to speak to him; crying out their woes for him to fix with pliers and hot iron, whispering in his ear how to pull each piece apart and place them back even better. He was a real blackthumb, and the more he molded metal to his will, the more he was taken note of. First in couples, then in crowds, then in droves.

More and more clamoured for his attention on their degrading vehicles. Pinhole leaks, rusted joints, crossed wires that sparked offtime, all points glossed over by the other mechanics that he picked out and set right once more. He was happy, almost; he was the center of attention at times, more popular then many hood riders or polecats, but he still lacked what the gods took from him. He could not hobble about on a single leg and a crutch, bound to the Citadel for the rest of his short life, so he set to creating for himself what his body could no longer provide.

A steel bumper here, scrap of upholstery leather there, and half-blown shock as well, pieced together during long hours in the short desert night. He crafted his new leg in chrome, immortal silver that would serve him in this life and the next. It fit like it grew from his stump, leather cupping the scarred flesh beneath his knee, clinging in place with a few belts as he tested the ankle, relishing the quiet click of heel and toe tapping the ground.

He was whole once more. The Wreck that once was now rebuilt, a new leg that braced his knee and bridged the gap between the gritty floor and and scarred stump. He could war again, and the thought almost made him sob precious tears as he fell into sleep once more and dreamt. Dreams of fire and steel, of glory and death, Wreck dreamed of wild hopes, but wilder realities were yet to come.


	2. Chromed

Joe summoned you to his great hall. Word must have finally reached his ears, your sacrifice and struggle finally reaching to the living god himself. Rictus came to fetch you, snatching you up by the shoulder with one great hand digging into your skin and hauling you to your feet. Your wrench clattered to the ground as you scrabbled to get your feet under yourself. Both feet now, your silver prosthetic clicking and scraping for purchase on the sand floor as the giant tugged you close to his face.

“Pa want’s t’see you, Wreck,” He knew your name, weather it be from your sacrifice or cruel word of mouth. You nodded and waked along quickly enough so the prince did not have to drag you, metal leg clunking heavily as you tried to match pace with the giant of a man. Rictus wheezed when he walked, his air filter pack humming just a little too loud then almost shutting off before building up the hum again. You could fix that, there was probably a leak somewhere and a sensor working overtime to make sure the filters weren’t overclocked.

There wasn’t time to tell the prince of the wasteland before you were marched through the rusted metal doors of the great hall. A swift kick to the back of your knees made you kneel and Rictus’s grip finally left your shoulder, a lingering tingle indicative of a bruise to come.

Immortan Joe, the living god, and king of the waste sat atop his throne. A wide car seat with shiny bumpers rising from the back and over the arms of the seat, making the bright desert sun scatter and illuminate the detail of Joe’s respirator. His wife, one of five he called his favorites, sat beside him, legs over his lap wit his pale hand stroking her light brown skin. It looked more like he was keeping them there, but you didn’t linger long on that thought.

“Wreck,” The warlord rumbled your name and you shuddered. The god knew and called you by name, a privilege most rare. “I have heard of your mechanical work, very clean, very neat.” It was like the lord was making small talk, letting you ease to the boom of his voice that echoed in the empty air. “You’re a very technical boy, nothing crude about your work, a proper blackfinger. Even the prosthetic you crafted could put the Imperator ’s to shame and it’s your newest work,” 

You heard a clank, and a quick peek upwards revealed the woman with the shaved head and half her arm missing rock on her feet, lips pursing and eyes narrowing as her whole hand brushed over the support struts of her prosthetic. Joe continued, “A far better limb to replace the one you sacrificed for me,”

Your heart stalled, either stopped completely or thundering too fast to feel under your death-mottled skin. You dared a look up to meet Joe’s gaze, your sunken slate gray eyes meeting his piercing blue. You, Wreck, a young man ravaged by fire and twisted metal down your right side while death swelled in knotted lumps over your left, praised by the living god himself, your fever dreams bleeding out into reality like guzzoline on the sand.

“Immortan Joe, lord of the waste, living god of chrome, I thank you for your praise,” Your voice wavered a little, the fear of forgetting one of the older man’s titles making your tongue thick. Joe chuckled in reply, a sound like a boot scraped over gravel, but it eased you. He waved his hand and shook his head, skin around his eyes crinkling in a smile obscured by the long teeth of his respirator.

“You must be wondering why I called you here hm? Why I would call the most technical boy into my presence,” You scrambled for ideas, perhaps his respirator was malfunctioning much like his son’s, or he wanted his steel steed rewired and only trusted your hands to the task.

“There is a threat on the horizon Wreck, out beyond the Citadel, beyond even the furthest reach of my grasp is a gang who threaten all I have worked to build and provide. They have harnessed powers beyond my own and what my informants tell me is one day soon they will turn this power against me and my people,”

“How could they! You are the lord of the V8, the Immortal, you control all the water!” You couldn’t help but blurt your thoughts, it was a foolish notion to strike against the most powerful man in the desert, the only man who could provide the water needed to survive. Joe wheezed through his respirator, his grip tightening knuckle-white on his wife’s shin for just a moment. You bowed your head meekly and settled on your haunches once more.

“They are taking a foolish gamble yes, but it is a gamble they would only take if they knew they might succeed,” The lord of the waste lifted his wife’s legs off his lap and stood, slowly stepping down from his throne to stand in front of you. Two fingers curled in front of your eyes and you rose on shaking legs. Immortan Joe towered over you, your throat drying up and body trembling but a hand on your shoulder eased the tremors of your body.

“They are technical, just like you, and I want you to meet them in war and learn from them so you can save us all, Wreck,” You ducked your head in an eager nod, you would do anything for this man, anything to redeem yourself. Joe’s eyes closed for a moment, a happy hum hissing out from behind his respirator. The lord’s hand reached to his waist and produced a can of silver spray paint, you grinned wide as he brought the can to your face.

“Then go Wreck, go shiny and chrome to meet our enemies and if you are to sacrifice yourself, for me and for my people, then I will meet you in Valhalla and we will ride eternal,” The can hissed and you felt the cool mist of paint coat your teeth. Shiny and chrome you would go, and this time you would come back a hero, the memory of your sacrifice hailed in chanted song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still opening up the plot and setting stuff up ughhh, next chapter Wreck will make his way into the waste and we will catch our first glimpse of Black Fly I promise!
> 
> For your reference, Wreck is around 5'8" and Immortan Joe is 6'some", so if Albino Mullet Warlord was standing in front of me staring me in the eye and I was more like 5'8" and not 5'11", I'd be trembling and trying not to shit myself too.
> 
> Maybe in a couple chapters I'll post the character art I drew up before writing this fic, just gotta introduce Black Fly first...
> 
> Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments or in my inbox, I thrive on feedback!


	3. Ride

It had been too long; dust coated her like the white paint upon your own chassis and rust gnawed upon her like the death under your skin. Your steed Sleipnir, a bike with wide tires built for skimming over dunes and an engine that brayed when gunned, was slowly being forgotten in the corner of a work cave. You had abandoned her after your accident, unable to ride such a beauty without both legs.

Chrome panged on chrome as you sat astride her, fingers finding the grooves in the handles bolded to your touch. Your blood sang for battle, for the thrum of the engine between your legs, for the thrust and give of your spear hitting home.

“Oy, it’s Wreck, the rut he thinks e’s doin’,” Your lurid daydream was peeled away like a bandage on a sore that wouldn’t close, revealing a raw wound that other war boys loved to pick at.

Balrog and Grate were two of the biggest war boys, faces mottled with knots of tumors and whorls of scars from war. The twain of them stalked up to you, grinning predatory as Balrog laid his hands on Sleipnir’s handlebars and Grate walked over to your left side and leaned in.

“Little Mechanic thinks he can ride again Balrog,” Hissed Grate.

“An’ risk ‘is delicate little fingies in war? Why Grate the death must’f finally started pressing on ‘is brain,” Drawled Balrog, arms flexing and chest twitching. You fell for his trick, too fearful that he could destroy her before you could ride her heroic one last time. The larger boys laughed, Balrog leaning in to jeer in your face, breath of fetid meat and sour milk.

“’E couldn’t, can’t risk ‘is pretty bike in the grit, too delicate, to pretty, like one of the wives. ‘E’s too pretty too, one more hit and he’ll shatter into dust, meaningless, worthless, dust, ” Balrog laughed, licking his teeth like a hungry dog.

“Enough,” Rictus’s voice boomed behind the bullies, they snapped to attention and turned to the giant. The prince tossed his head and they beat a hasty retreat, then when the mottled thugs were out of the way he entered an glared at your bike.

You gulped and hopped off, wiping the seat with your palm and offering it to him. Rictus sat, the giant of a man on a bike a fraction too small for him, but he did not mind. The prince hummed approvingly.

“What do you call her?”

“S-sleipnir,”

“Mmh, the god’s horse, I like it,” His grip mashed into the sloping grooves of the handlebar, twisting this way and that and making the broad tire complain on the gritty floor. “She will be mine in this war, she will return to you well used if you live,”

You were going to protest, deny the prince your fine mare, your steed you had tinkered and polished until she was chrome, but Rictus already proposed an easy deal. You could only nod dumbly as his smile widened. 

 

* * *

 

You rode in the cab of a spiny bug, not driving, simply watching the sands stretching forever all around you. You had a sheaf of papers in your lap, a rare thing in the waste, but you had already read through them thrice.

It was all the info Immortan had on this nameless threat, crude diagrams of their weapons and their destructive force. Mines so powerful that they blew the Doof warrior like a scrap of cloth in a hurricane when a bike went over it, spinning guns that never need reload, constantly chewing strips of anti-seeds to mow down enemies, rockets that could stop a war rig dead.

The reports scared you. You were barely a war boy, weakened by the shade of the Citadel’s workshops, stripped of his steed, and dependent on a piece of himself so easily unbuckled and taken away. You did not belong here; not in this spine-covered vehicle, not in the omnipotent heat of the waste, but Immortan Joe had told to you go, chromed you by his own hand and promised to meet you in Valhalla.

You sagged in the seat, leg whirring and clicking as you tapped the silver toes of your prosthetic on the floor. Only a big toe and a rectangular piece to make up the other ones to keep you balanced, too many toes and the prosthetic would never be able to face the sand, none and you would fall at the slightest breeze.

“Enemy on the horizon!”

“Let’s teach that smeghead a lesson!”

“Send ‘em running back to their mother, lead us right to ‘em!!”

You snapped to attention, leaning forward in the seat and squinting at the black speck ahead. Someone must of spotted them with a telescope, there’s no way you could discern them from a black fly on the windshield from this far away.

The car roared underneath you, slamming you back into the cracked upholstery as the drive launched the car forward with a whoop of wild joy. You scrambled in your seat, looking for a weapon to defend yourself with, anything to help your brothers fend off this lone attacker. Your driver slapped you in the chest, pinning you back to the seat.

“Stay scarce, if you go down this is all wrecked, Immortan wants you to get a look at their weapons and for that you need to be alive,”

Point taken, you meekly drop the weapon you had picked up and shimmied down in the leg space. You heard the squall of the Doof warrior’s guitar and the heavy thump of the taiko, your blood sang for war just like all those nights ago.

“Where is he? Wreck?”

A familiar voice beckoned you from your hiding spot; you rose to meet the gaze of Rictus Erectus and immediately you bowed your head in respect.

“She rides like a dream, Sleipnir,” you allowed yourself a little quirk of a smile, proud of your work, “Let’s see if she can run down that ruttin’ sonovabitch,” Rictus revved the bike, then shot forward with a mad roar, shooting ahead of the war party to close the gap between the lone enemy and certain death.

The black rider veered off to one side, driving an arc in the sand to loop around the party. You did not sink back into your hiding spot, transfixed by how they steadied the bike with a single hand while the other disappeared into folds of black cloth, only to emerge gripping what looked to be a stone.

They lobbed it towards the party and you chuckled, so much for advanced warfare. Then the stone exploded and the vehicle beside you exploded into a bright fireball.

“E’s got grenades! Shoot em outta the sky before they land,”

They opened fire on the rider, guns cracking all around you in hopes of picking the rider off their seat. They were too quick though, weaving and hurling grenades in retaliation. Grenades exploded offtime to the drums, your brothers thrown into the sand with their force. The grenades stopped coming and the rider changed tactics; they pulled their feet up from the sides of the machine, one curling beneath them on the wide seat while the other braced between the handlebars behind the horned skull that adorned the front. The prince of the wastes, once eager to run down this unnamed threat, wheeled around and dove back into the armor of the convoy.

They produced a pair of small automatic weapons from inside their coat and hellfire rained upon the war party. You could hear them scream all around you; bullets panging against chassis, against flesh, you saw cars veer as their wounded drivers lost control. Boys chromed themselves and hollered a final glorious note before they to found their end.

And just as the rain started it ended. The biker was too close now, those armed and alive eager to return the favour. The black figure reared their bike, turning it about on a single wheel before dashing off.

“No!”

Rictus howled and shot forward yet again, the gap closing, closing. Pop bam, a last grenade tossed into the sand behind the rider, sending Sleipnir and the hulking man sprawling to the ground as the rider flew into the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at all those damn references.


	4. Ambush

The sun is too low in the sky to race back to the Citadel by its light and the war boys have not had their blood and they snarl and prowl about the parked vehicles on lookout for the black-cloaked figure. The war party would stay the night in the cooling desert to refuel before following the tire tracks of the ambush rider at sunup.

You had other ideas.

You had sat by the edge of the group for hours, ears barely picking out what the boys said as they chewed dried meat and shoveled bland cooked beans into their maws. Your mind was humming, keening like an overworked engine as your body fought itself.

_Do I stay? Do I go? Do I stay? Do I go? **Do I stay?** **Do I go? Do I-**_

And your thoughts shattered into a fit of hacking coughs that left you clawing at your throat as lights flickered behind your eyelids. The Death had worked through you, becoming part of you, wove its tendrils right into your core, and squeezed. You were a half-life, but with a missing leg and as many fleshy knots adorning your body, you might as well be called a quarter-life.  
You were going to die soon, perhaps not the way you planned, not glorious and bright in war, but it was no matter. Joe would simply pluck another blackthumb from the caves and send him along to fill your boots, replacing you like a worn tire.

That’s why you had to make your short time count, make Joe and the other boys know you were not an easy part to replace, a gear that fit just so and would not let any other toothy wheel claim it’s position. That’s how you finally got your brain to quiet down. You would go; you would steal back your steed and ride after the attacker, you would take them hostage, hell maybe even kill them after beating the information out of them instead, but at any rate you would make your mark. Joe would hear of your success and you would be redeemed, no longer a twisted thing seeking pity in a pitiless place, but a hero who rode victorious and died glorious.

You set your eating tin down in the sand and stood, brushing the sand form your overalls. You smiled as your fingers traced Immortan’s sigil painted on the folded down bib of the pants, your little added touch that made you special. You pulled up the belt that looped under the folded grey-black material, making sure none of the little pouches would jingle as you snuck about.

Your hands jittered with nerves, but you were decided. None of the boys noticed you, you were too small and quiet and, dare you call yourself, **soft**. You were subtle here other boys were brash, calm where other boys were frantic. You chuckled to yourself, perhaps losing your leg had softened you, but one could still temper a wicked edge from soft metal.

Sleipnir was parked behind one of the rigs, her flanks loaded with saddlebags bristling with weapons. You only needed one and the extra artillery would only slow you. You tugged the bags off, trying you best not to make a ruckus, not that the boys could hear you over their own noise.

With Sleipnir unladen, you sat astride her once more, body melting to the cradle of her saddle and grip of her handlebars. A rifle was slung over your back, clip in with another waiting in a thigh pocket in case, although taking the attacker by surprise would give you a head start none the less.

Sleipnir chuffed, and then whinnied as you peeled out from the camp. Hollers and shouts pursued you, but no motors. You flew over the sand, a mad whoop snatched from your lips as your blood burned through you, your body remembering what it was to war. The sand had softened the rider’s tracks, but the dim moonlight and your sharp eyes picked up the trail and followed it like a wire amongst thousands of others.

You did not measure how long you rode, but in what felt to be fleeting moments of racing over and down dunes you saw a flicker of light. Fire, life, the rider. A wicked grin twists your face, no longer soft and subtle but sharp and ruthless; you would kill for your brothers, for your god.  
You let Sleipnir ride to a halt a little ways off, dismounting and swinging the rifle to your front to catch it in a practiced grip. You stalked forward, nervous breath rattling your ribs as the light of the fire licked the black metal of your rifle and the matching scarification on your inner arm. One side a killer and one side a mechanic, a rifle and wrench, balanced like the scales of justice. In that moment you were judge, jury and executioner, trying this lone enemy for crimes most heinous for which they would receive fitting punishment from the tip of your gun.

You rounded the soft side of the dune that sheltered the fire, letting off a burst of shots that burrowed harmlessly into the sand beyond the fire. There was no rider, simply the bike and a half eaten meal resting beside the front tire. You grip loosened on your weapon as you approached the bike, looking it over from spokes to sprockets.

It didn’t appear to be branded, and its shape did not fit any of the pictures you had ever seen. _It must be custom_ , you concluded. White slivers caught your eye, and your eyes traced three perfect ribs bolted to the gas tank like the chest of some long dead animal. That and the strange skull, jaw wired open over the front light, made you scoff.

“Like a big black ruttin' fly onn’a corpse,” You murmered your thoughts aloud, aiming your rifle to the front tire just next to the tin plate. Couldn’t drive with a blown tire, trekking in the sand was futile, it’d make them easy track if they got away.

You did not expect to get tackled from the side as you aimed. With a yelp you went down, rifle knocked from your hand as your assailant straddled your hips and wrestled for your weapon.

Sand poured off them, scratching against your skin as you fought for the weapon, hands grasping and twisting and scrabbling. It was eventually torn from your grip with a howl and tossed aside, the rider now fighting to pin your arms as well as your hips. You managed to crack your forehead into theirs, dazing them enough to roll, but not enough for them not to roll over you again and pin you proper this time with both hands clenched to your chest and the cold kiss of a blade to your throat. They were breathing hard, but grinning, just one flick of the wrist would bleed you out onto the sand, the same sand that had concealed them to lure you into their trap.

You got a good look at the rider now. They were still dressed in black, a long coat stitched all together and a black shirt were all you could discern with sand still falling from their mass of tight waves and ringlets, braided back at the temples to keep it off their nut brown cheeks. Their lips were full and soft, long lashes framing their gold-brown eyes, you felt your guts flip flop and your throat clench as you swallowed dry.

You were one wrong move away from being culled by a woman, by someone soft and gentle, _a breeder_.

“You’re a girl,”

It was a dumb response but it was the one stable thing you could hold onto in this moment. Their face twisted, full cheeks contorted in a grimace as their eyes narrowed. The blade left your throat, snapping closed into their dark-skinned hand before they snapped their fist into your temple. As if the moon had been turned off by a great switch, your world was plunged into darkness.


	5. Neither

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry fro the big delay and short chapter!!  
> It's hard to write for one fic where you have three on the go all for the same universe!

You were roused with the rumble of a bike motor in your ears, the sway and thump of the seat beneath you, and the great proximity to another body that you did not recognize as the body of sick-starved warboy.

With a hiss you reared back, but there wasn’t anywhere to go when you were tied against their back with your arms bound too. A string of curses left your lips; what felt to be bike chain was wrapped around your arms, and try as you might you couldn’t move your left leg. You mumbled another curse, if your leg was missing you might never see it again, never walk or ride again.

“Looking for this?”

It took you a split second to track down where the voice came from. The rider in front of you let go of the handlebar and lifted your shining prosthetic from their lap and waggled it, making the heel click and chrome shine. Taunting you.

“Give it back! That aint yours you filthy raider!” you tried to sound tough, but there wasn’t much sense to a fight you had already lost. “Fuckin thievin’ slag, when the war parties catch up to you you’ll be shredded along with your smeg bike,” Curses and threats were all you had, maybe you could coax a rash reply out of them if you spat and fought enough.

“Oh what, overtake Weindigo? Not likely,” Your prosthetic disappeared again and you let out a pitiful whine; that was your leg they were waving about, almost as if they were waving around your head or bits, a part dreadfully important to the whole machine and they were treating it like a knickknack. “First they’d have to scrape together enough boys to chase after me, ” For emphasis their empty hand came up clenched in a fist, and with a _boom_ they opened it. You gut churned, weather from hunger or the thought of your brethren now in Valhalla thanks to this single biker. You changed the subject.

“You know what we do to pretty girls down in the bunks? After Immortan has had his pick of course,” No reply, you grinned savagely and continued, “We shred ‘em, all take turns breedin’ them an’ beatin’ them until they cry themselves out,” A boldfaced lie, girls in the bunks were just like any other warboy, just shaped a little different with far more knifes hidden away in their trousers.

They rode in silence, the sand dunes stretching in every direction around the bike so far as you could turn and crane you neck, giving you no hint how far from the Citadel you were or what you were riding to. You waited for a response; even a grunt of acknowledgement, but nothing came from the rider.

“Who say’s I’m a girl?” Not so much a question, but a statement.

“I said you’re a girl, you like a breeder with all that hair,”

“I’m not a girl,”

“A girly boy then, had me right fooled you prick,”

“I’m not a boy either,”

This let you a little puzzled; they had to be one or the other, they couldn’t be neither boy nor girl, that wasn’t possible. You leaned against their back and rest your chin as best you could on their shoulder, trying to catch a glance at their face to make a better assessment.

“You can’t not be one,”

“I can, I am right now, I’m neither,”

“Schlanga, what have you got down there,”

“Something,”

“ _Something?_ ” You grunted, disapproving, that wasn’t an answer.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Their voice lilted, sing song as they twisted words you had used back on yourself. It was maddening, you couldn’t place them from voice alone and your vantage didn’t allow a look at their face, for now you were stuck.

Even though you couldn’t see it, you could tell they were smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who are wondering:
> 
> Yes, this character who kidnapped Wreck is a single person (not a group of people as they/them pronouns may suggest).  
> Yes, they are genderqueer.  
> No, I do not have a fixed sex for them in my head, for all I know they have an alarm clock in their pants.  
> No, their sex being revealed will not be a plot-twist in the story, in fact, their sex will stay ambiguous for the entire fic.  
> Yes, you are allowed to think of them as female or male bodied if you can't grok what an androgeyne/genderqueer body would look like.  
> Yes, if you so desire to draw fanart, you can draw them female or male bodied if you can't draw an androgeyne/genderqueer bodytype.  
> Yes, If you are already shipping Wreck and them, you can call Wreck straight/gay/bi/pan depending on how you perceive the gender-neutral character.
> 
> Any other questions, please comment them!

**Author's Note:**

> This entire idea/plot and these characters started forming about 5 minuets after I watched Mad Max: Fury Road, and after a few hours of scouring the Mad Max wiki and drawing character designs I decided to put my ideas into writing. On top of the sudden inspiration I also get great ideas along the way, so you are all in for some (or at least one) plot twists.
> 
> So welcome aboard my nonstop terrortrain of desertpunk aesthetic and non-binary genders, I hope you will stick around to see this ride to the end! Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments or in my inbox, I thrive on feedback!


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